Zakaria

He stands against the old barn door relaxed not a confrontational bone, thin as a pitchfork's tine. Farmhand, hunter, true-shooter, the lens flatters him. A ring of white T-shirt gives a reverse halo to his lantern-jaw. Loose fitting pants rumple just right atop his kick ass boots. He stands against an old barn door who held up who the real question— a bit of James Dean in pocket pressed hands, Paul Newman in his eyes. Flannel hugs him. (When the woman aren’t.) Capped by a bent brimmed hat, he's rolled to perfection. I’m sure the name tag on his shirt didn’t do him justice—